“Thank you, thank you.” He bows slightly.
I tap my finger against my lips. “Okay, but what about the proposal? Who did it?”
“I guess we can say that you proposed to me. You know, progressive woman and all that.” He flashes a smug grin.
I give him a look. “Absolutely not. I wouldneverpropose to a man. I’m all for women’s rights, but I draw the line at getting on one knee.”
“Ouch.” Esteban dramatically clutches his chest. “My dreams of being swept off my feet just died.”
“You’ll survive,” I say, smirking. “You proposed to me. I want a good story though. Something romantic.”
He thinks for a second. “Fine. We’ll say I did it in front of your family at the Ross Christmas dinner.”
I narrow my eyes. “With the whole Ross clan there? My aunt Karen would’ve started crying before you even opened the ring box. She’s a sucker for proposals.”
“Exactly,” he says, proud. “I got on one knee, made a heartfelt speech about how I’ve loved you since forever, and your dad tried to act tough but had tears in his eyes. Your mom filmed the whole thing on her phone and accidentally had the camera in selfie mode the entire time.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that’swaytoo accurate. This is sounding suspiciously like it actually happened.”
“Maybe in another life,” he says with a shrug.
I ignore the weird little flip that statement gives my stomach and glance down at the next question on the list. “Okay, when’s our anniversary?”
Esteban leans over to look. “Let’s pick something easy to remember. Valentine’s Day?”
“Too cliché.”
“April Fool’s Day?”
I blink at him. “Really?”
“It would explain so much.” He grins.
I laugh. “Let’s go with June third. It’s random, not too close to any holidays, and easy to remember.”
He nods. “Deal. June third, the day I tricked you into loving me.”
I make a face. “Please. I’d never fall for a man who writes like a serial killer.”
“You’re holding my handwriting against me?” His face full of false shock.
“Yes. It’s chaos. That notepad looks like a ransom note.”
Esteban chuckles, then points at the list. “Okay, next one, favorite thing about each other. This is where you swoon and say something like, ‘Esteban’s eyes are so dreamy, and he cooks like a sexy Gordon Ramsay.’”
I pretend to think. “Hmm. No, I’ll say your cooking’s okay, your eyes are… acceptable, but myfavoritething about you is how you look when you’re concentrating. Like when you were making the tostones and your tongue did that little thing?—”
“What thing?” His eyes widen.
I smirk. “The thing. I won’t say more. Let it haunt you.”
“You’re evil,” he mutters, grinning.
“And what’s your favorite thing about me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Your laugh.”
That throws me. For a second, I just sit there blinking at him.
